


blood red

by Mertiya



Series: Fire Emblem Missing Scenes [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Trans Male Character, ferdinand is a dumbfuck but we all love him anyway, hubert is out of his depth and also low-key THIRSTY AS FUCK, linhardt is just trying to make sure no one dies, references to top surgery, trans Ferdinand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: When Ferdinand is injured on the battlefield, Hubert is the first to notice.  For some reason.





	blood red

**Author's Note:**

> okay yeah idk y'all i just love this ship and i ended up with Feelings about trans ferdy and I AM FERDINAND VON AEGIR so here we are I guess, also I absolutely believe Ferdinand would be stupid enough to get onto a battlefield while he was still healing from top surgery

Hubert von Vestra hates Ferdinand von Aegir. There is not a single thing about him that doesn’t grate on Hubert’s nerves—his loud devotion to his singular notion of honor, his loud assertions that he is in any way comparable to Lady Edelgard, his—well. His loud. His loud in general is annoying and stupid and overbearing. Hubert has spent a fair few evenings fantasizing about holding Ferdinand down and choking him until he can’t get out a single noise for at least the rest of the evening.

So it’s quite satisfying for him when, during a skirmish with yet another set of bandits, Ferdinand starts to yell his infernal war cry but instead of the usual insipid yes-we-know-who-you-are-Ferdinand, all that gets out is, “I AM FERDI--_oomph—”_ as one of the bandits hits him square across the chest with a very heavy-looking club. He crumples to his knees immediately, so it must have been a powerful blow. The bandit raises her arm again, and Hubert is, perhaps, _mildly_ tempted to let Ferdinand get his skull cracked open, but if he lets that happen, he’ll never get to choke the man himself, so he sends a wave of silent, sparkling magic at her and watches as she clutches her throat and then falls without a sound.

By now, their dear professor has realized what has happened, and they’re running over to check on Ferdinand, who has one hand across his chest, his face going grayish-white around the edges. Still, Hubert has to give him credit for guts when he looks up and flashes Byleth a shaky smile and thumbs’ up. Ferdinand staggers to his feet, and the rush of battle swallows them all up again.

They’re all limping back exhaustedly towards Garreg Mach when Hubert realizes that things have been blissfully silent for far too long. Of course, Caspar is doing a good job of yelling, as usual, but it’s eerie how much quieter it is with Ferdinand’s encouraging voice oddly absent. Frowning, irritated at himself for not being able to enjoy this rare treat, Hubert looks around to see if he can figure out what’s going on. Everyone is tired, of course; Linhardt is hovering solicitously around Byleth—now that’s an obvious crush if Hubert’s ever seen one—and, interestingly, Dorothea is keeping up a steady stream of cheerful chatter at Edelgard’s elbow, while Bernadetta hides behind Petra and Caspar talks loudly about how great the battle was. But where is Ferdinand?

It takes too long before Hubert spots a tell-tale flash of red, and it’s too far back. He’s trailing yards behind the rest, propping himself up on his lance as he forces dragging feet to move. Hubert rolls his eyes and heads back down the path. “Goddess’ sake, can’t you keep up?” he snaps, and Ferdinand blinks up at him with pain-clouded eyes. There’s moisture soaking through his shirt front, Hubert realizes with a shock, and a smear of red shows at the base of his collar. Ferdinand opens his mouth, but the only answer that comes out is a hoarse wheeze. “Sit down,” Hubert orders him, and when Ferdinand just shakes his head stubbornly, he puts a hand on Ferdinand’s arm and pushes. “Sit _down_. Professor! Linhardt!”

Linhardt turns first, his eyes widening as he realizes something is wrong, and he’s running back towards the two of them as the rest of the Black Eagles turn as well. Ferdinand clearly doesn’t want to sit, but Hubert doesn’t give him a choice; he may normally be stronger than the mage, but he’s in too much pain to fight, which is—deeply concerning. “Wait,” Ferdinand protests weakly as Hubert starts to undo the buttons of his uniform shirt, but Hubert ignores him.

The black shirt comes open to reveal a swathe of red-soaked bandages across Ferdinand’s chest above his thin waist. What the hell? When was he hurt? “Get those off,” Linhardt instructs, his usually lazy voice concentrated and emotionless. Ferdinand shakes his head helplessly, but Hubert ignores him, sacrificing a little secrecy to dig a dagger out of his boot and slice through them, pulling them apart even as Ferdinand makes a soft pained hissing noise.

His whole chest is covered in blood. Diagonally across it is the bruised impression of the club, which has left raised welts in its wake, but there’s also two long lines in approximate right angles on either side of his chest. Those were done with a knife, and quite expertly, if Hubert is any judge. They were evidently stitched up after being inflicted, but the more recent injury has burst a number of stitches and started the bleeding again.

Linhardt asks no questions; he just kneels beside the injured man and presses his hand to his chest—

“Wait,” Ferdinand rasps, catching his wrist. “_Wait_.” Linhardt pauses, looking up in confusion. “Can’t use healing magic—on a surgery—” Ferdinand grits out.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Hubert snarls. “Do you _want_ to die?”

“No,” Linhardt says softly. “No, he’s quite right; healing magic will disrupt whatever the surgeon was trying to do, which I imagine—” he pauses and goes quiet. “Well,” he says. “All right, Ferdinand, who did this? We’ll have to get you back to them.”

“Manuela,” Ferdinand manages, although talking is obviously still incredibly painful.

“Linhardt!” Hubert says incredulously, although a small part of his mind is trying to figure out where this terror has come from, this odd, unnatural _fear_ that suffuses his entire mind and body. “He’s bleeding to death!”

“He’s not there yet,” Linhardt snaps back. “If it comes to that, I’ll heal him. Now come on, everyone, I need your help.”

Byleth has reached them by now, and everyone else is following closely behind. In the end, Bernadetta and Petra weave a quick stretcher between them, and Edelgard and Byleth lift Ferdinand carefully between them, as Linhardt hovers and gives them careful, steady instructions, and Hubert hovers and does nothing, feeling frustrated and useless.

The bleeding is sluggish—Ferdinand did manage to make it through the whole battle before collapsing—but it’s steady, and his eyes glaze more and more as the little huddle of students makes their way back towards the monastery, Linhardt making displeased clucking noises every-so-often that would have been amusing if someone’s life hadn’t been at stake. And since when did Hubert have any regard for the sanctity of human life?

With an uneasy start, Hubert realizes that he quite _enjoys_ hating Ferdinand. It’s comfortable. Bizarrely, it will now be unpleasant if Ferdinand died. Which is a shame, because it means Hubert can’t kill him himself.

They are perhaps a quarter of an hour’s hard march out from Garreg Mach when Linhardt bends over Ferdinand, puts a critical hand on his forehead, and says, “I’m sorry, I’ll have to heal you. We have to be certain you won’t bleed out before we reach—”

Ferdinand catches his wrist again. “Linhardt, please—” he gasps, and he whimpers.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” Linhardt says. “Or Hubert is right, you’ll bleed to death. The only other option—” He glances at Hubert. “We could try to cauterize the injuries, but I can’t promise it would work sufficiently well, and it will probably scar.”

“Please,” wheezes Ferdinand, and Linhardt sighs and beckons to Hubert. “Can you be sufficiently precise with your magic?” he asks. 

“Of course,” Hubert responds, because what kind of a question is that?

“Then burn him along the seams of those cuts. See if you can close up the injury.”

“Very well.” Raising a hand, Hubert lets flames leap to his fingertips. “This is going to hurt a great deal,” he tells Ferdinand, but Ferdinand hardly reacts.

“Just do it,” he says wearily, without even taking the opportunity to apply an insulting epithet to Hubert, and Hubert’s heart does a strange twisting thump inside his chest. He doesn’t scream when the flames touch his skin, when the flesh boils and warps and melts beneath them, though he bites his lip until blood appears there as well. The cuts close up in the wake of the red swelling flesh, and when Hubert lets his hand drop, his muscles are trembling with tightness.

And then Ferdinand—damn him—lifts his head a little and _smiles_ at him. Hubert wants to kill him.


End file.
